BROWNING    MEMORIAL. 


Has  not  this  man  then  a  right  to  my  love,  to  my  admiration, 
to  all  the  means  which  I  can  employ  in  his  defence  ?  .  .  .  A 
poet  is  formed  by  the  hand  of  Nature ;  he  is  aroused  by  mental 
vigor,  and  inspired  by  what  we  may  call  the  spirit  of  divinity 
itself.  Therefore  our  Ennius  has  a  right  to  give  to  poets  the 
epithet  of  Holy,  because  they  are,  as  it  were,  lent  to  mankind 
by  the  indulgent  bounty  of  the  gods. 

CICERO  :   Oration  for  Archias. 


ROBERT    BROWNING. 


3fn  jHemoriam. 


MEMORIAL  TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 


UNDER   THE   AUSPICES    OF   THE 


BROWNING   SOCIETY  OF  BOSTON. 


KING'S  CHAPEL,  TUESDAY,  JANUARY  28,  1890. 


Camberwell,  England,  May  7,  1812. 
Venice,  Italy,  December  12,  1889. 


for  tlje  Sf>0ci0tg 

BY  THE   UNIVERSITY   PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

ORDER  OF  EXERCISES 9 

INTRODUCTORY  n 

OPENING  ADDRESS.     BY  COL.  THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON  14 

SONG  FROM  ROBERT  BROWNING'S  "PIPPA  PASSES" 17 

PRAYER.    BY  REV.  FRANCIS  G.  PEABODY,  D.D 18 

HYMN*.     BY  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 20 

MEMORIAL  ADDRESS.   BY  REV.  CHARLES  CARROLL  EVERETT,  D.D.  21 

SOXG  FROM  ROBERT  BROWNING'S  "PARACELSUS" 47 

PERSONAL  REMINISCENCES.     BY  C.  P.  CRANCH 48 

SONNET.     BY  C.  P.  CRANCH 53 

REMARKS.     BY  DANA  ESTES  .     .     . 54 

POEM.     BY  R.  W.  GILDER 59 

HYMN.     BY  ISAAC  WATTS 60 

BENEDICTION.     BY  REV.  PHILLIPS  BROOKS,  D.D 61 

COMMITTEE  OF  ARRANGEMENTS 62 

USHERS .  63 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

PORTRAIT  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING Frontispiece 

KING'S  CHAPEL n 

INTERIOR  KING'S  CHAPEL 21 

KING'S    CHAPEL,   CHANCEL    AND    PULPIT,   WITH    MEMORIAL 
DECORATIONS 54 


The    Browning    Society  is  indebted   to   the    NEW    ENGLAND    MAGAZINE 
COMPANY  for  the  use  of  the  Portrait,  and  the  two  views  of  King's  Chapel. 


ORDER  OF  EXERCISES. 


ORGAN  PRELUDE  .  .  John  Sebastian  Bach  .  .  B.  J.  LANG. 
OPENING  ADDRESS. 

By  the  President  of  the  Browning  Society  of  Boston, 

COL.  THOMAS    WENTWORTH    HIGGINSON. 

SONG. 
"The  year's  at  the  spring." 

Words  from  Robert  Browning's  "  Pippa  Passes."    Music  by 
Clara  K.  Rogers.     Sung  by  W.  J.  Winch. 

PRAYER. 
BY   REV.    FRANCIS    G.    PEABODY,   D.D. 

HYMN. 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

Words  by  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning.     Music  -written  for  this 
occasion  by  B.  J.  Lang.     Sung  by  W.  J.  Winch. 

MEMORIAL    ADDRESS. 

BY  REV.  CHARLES    CARROLL   EVERETT,    D.D. 


SONG. 

"  I  go  to  prove  my  soul !  " 

Prom  Robert  Browning's  "  Paracelsus"      Music  by  Emily 
Harradan.     Sung  by   W.  J.  Winch. 


PERSONAL  REMINISCENCES,  AND  SONNET  WRITTEN 
FOR  THE  OCCASION. 

BY  C.   P.  CRANCH. 


REMARKS. 

BY  DANA  ESTES,  Chairman  of  the  Executive  Committee. 


READING   OF   TRIBUTES. 

From    PROF.  CHARLES    ELIOT    NORTON.          From    REV.  JAMES   T.   BIXBY. 
From    CHARLES    DUDLEY    WARNER.  From    HON.  GEORGE   WILLIAM    CURTIS. 

From   THOMAS    N.    HART,   Mayor  of  Boston. 


AN  ORIGINAL  POEM. 

BY    RICHARD    WATSON    GILDER. 


HYMN. 

Sung  by  the  audience  at  the  Westminster  Abbey  Service. 
"  O  God,  our  help  in  ages  past." 


BENEDICTION. 

BY    REV.    PHILLIPS    BROOKS,    D.D. 


KING'S    CHAPEL. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


ROBERT  BROWNING,  by  his  life  and  death,  as  well 
as  by  his  own  "rare  gold  ring  of  verse,"  has  indis- 
solubly  linked  together  England  and  Italy.  It  was  befitting 
that  he  should  behold  the  last  of  earth  at  "beautiful  Venice, 
the  bride  of  the  sea,"  and  that  all  which  is  mortal  of  him 
should  rest  in  the  sacred  soil  of  England's  historic  abbey ; 
but  he  is  the  poet,  not  of  England  or  of  Italy,  but  of 
humanity,  —  honored  and  loved  the  world  over,  wherever 
the  soul  struggles  or  man  aspires. 

To  initiate  some  outward  expression  of  that  honor  and 
love  among  our  own  people  seemed  naturally  to  devolve 
upon  an  organized  body  like  the  Browning  Society  of  Bos- 
ton. On  its  behalf  the  board  of  officers  undertook  what 
was  at  once  a  privilege  and  a  duty,  others  kindly  assisted 
in  this  labor  of  love,  and  we  here  chronicle  the  result. 

King's  Chapel,  so  fragrant  with  sacred  memories,  where 
through  the  long  years  successive  generations  have  gladly 
turned  from  the  stir  of  the  street  to  the  hush  of  devotion, 
was  graciously  offered  for  our  use;  and  on  the  28th  day  of 
January,  1890,  at  the  vesper-hour  of  four,  the  spacious  edi- 
fice was  filled  to  its  capacity  with  those  who  desired  to  join 


12  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

in  this  commemorative  service.  While  there  may  have  been 
contributing  causes  to  swell  the  multitude  of  those  who, 
without  tickets  of  invitation,  thronged  the  approaches  to  the 
chapel  long  before  the  hour,  we  are  glad  to  believe  that  it 
was  an  indication  of  a  popular  appreciation  of  the  man  and 
his  work  beyond  what  has  shown  itself  in  organized  expres- 
sion or  in  individual  speech.  The  day  was  one  of  winter's 
best,  —  serene  and  beautiful  to  its  close,  —  only  cold  enough 
to  be  tonic. 

The  aspect  of  the  interior  of  the  chapel  was  impressive, 
and  its  whole  tone  harmonious.  As  described  in  one  of 
the  journals  of  the  day,  "the  solemn  nave  and  stately  apse 
of  this  old  Romanesque  structure,  its  groined  arches  and 
time-worn  carvings,  its  pictured  windows  and  softened 
light,"  gave  dignity  to  the  scene ;  while  the  Christmas  ever- 
greens still  remaining,  and  twining  around  the  pillars, 
wreathing  the  walls  and  clambering  over  busts  and  mural 
tablets  commemorating  the  great  and  good  who  have  passed 
into  the  "  vast  forever,"  —  these  and  the  laurel-leaves,  the 
calla  lilies,  the  white  and  pink  roses,  gracefully  disposed 
in  the  chancel,  the  reading-desk,  and  the  pulpit,  lent  the 
beauty  of  the  present  to  mingle  with  the  charm  of  the 
past.  As  Browning  would  have  wished,  there  was  nothing 
funereal ;  and  as  we  gazed  upon  the  laurel-crowned  crayon 
portrait  of  the  great  poet,  which  rested  on  the  easel  at  the 


Introductory.  1 3 

right  of  the  chancel,  one  could  well  imagine  his  benignant 
satisfaction  that  there  was  "  nothing  here  but  what  was 
good  and  fair."  As  tersely  expressive  of  his  faith  in  a  per- 
sonal immortality,  in  God,  and  in  His  immanence  in  the 
world  as  the  Perpetual  Beauty,  these  lines  from  "Christmas 
Eve,"  wrought  in  green  immortelles,  were  in  front  of  the 

pulpit :  — 

"  And  I  shall  behold  Thee  face  to  face, 
O  God,  and  in  Thy  light  retrace 
How  in  all  I  loved  here  still  wast  Thou  !  " 

The  rich  organ  tones,  under  the  accomplished  touch  of 
Mr.  Lang,  rendered  a  solemn  but  triumphant  prelude  from 
Bach,  and  then  Prof.  WILLIAM  J.  ROLFE,  the  first  vice- 
president  of  our  Society,  rose  and  said  :  — 

"  Friends  of  the  Browning  Society,  and  you  who  belong 
to  that  larger  Browning  Society  in  the  great  fellowship  of 
those  who  love  and  honor  the  poet,  I  am  very  sorry  that 
Colonel  Higginson  cannot  be  here  to-day,  and  I  know  that 
you  will  all  be  very  sorry ;  but  you  will  be  relieved  to  know 
that  in  taking  his  place  I  speak  for  him  and  not  for  myself, 
and  he  has  very  kindly  written  out  what  he  would  say  to 
you.  You  will  miss  his  graceful  and  felicitous  utterance, 
and  that  is  no  slight  loss  ;  but  it  cannot,  unfortunately,  be 
helped.  This  is  what  he  would  say,  and  say  much  better 
than  I  can,  if  he  were  here:  — 


OPENING    ADDRESS. 

BY  THE  PRESIDENT  OF  THE  BROWNING  SOCIETY  OF  BOSTON, 

COL.  THOMAS    WENTWORTH    HIGGINSON. 

[Read  by  Vice- President  Dr.  W.  J.  ROLFE.] 

"\  ~\  7E  meet  to-day  to  pay  our  modest  tribute  of  thanks  and 

*  *       love  to  one  of  the  great  teachers  of  the  English-speak- 
ing world.     If  British  readers  paid  a  similar  tribute  in  West- 
minster Abbey  to  our  own  Longfellow,  it  seems  not  unfitting 
that  we  should  gather  beneath  this  humbler  but  still  venera- 
ble roof,  whose  very  name  links  us  with  our  kindred  beyond 
sea ;  and  that  we  should  here  recognize  our  debt  to  one  who 
has  been  a  part  of  our  training,  has  made  his  thoughts  our 
thoughts,  and  has  enlarged  our  lives  to  the  wide  range  of  his 
rich  imagination.    He  never  visited  our  shores  ;  but  I  remem- 
ber to  have  read  in  a  letter  from  his  gifted  wife  that  they 
counted  among  their  friends  in  Italy  as  many  Americans  as 
English,  and  a  French  critic*  has  expressed  the  opinion  that 
Browning  was  himself  more  an  American  than  an  English- 

*  Selon  les  meilleurs  critiques  il  y  a  plus  de  similitude  entre  la  nature  du  talent  de 
M.  Browning  et  celle  des  AmeVicains  contemporains   .    .    .   qu'avec  celle  de  n'importe 
quel  poete  Anglais.  —  LAROUSSE:  Dictionnaire  Universe!.     Art.  Browning. 


Opening  Address.  15 

man  in  temperament.  Those  of  us  who  look  back  forty 
years  can  remember  that  he  had  even  then,  in  this  region,  a 
circle  of  grateful  readers  ;  and  he  was  praised  in  print  by 
Margaret  Fuller,  Lowell,  and  John  Weiss  at  a  time  when,  as 
Lady  Pollock  has  lately  testified,  he  had  scarcely  an  admirer 
in  London  save  the  actor  Macready. 

It  is  not  needful  that  we  should  assume  to  decide  Robert 

• 

Browning's  place  among  the  world's  poets  ;  that  requires  the 
consent  of  successive  ages  and  different  nationalities,  and 
we  are  some  centuries  too  soon  to  count  the  ballots.  Five 
hundred  years  after  Dante's  birth  Voltaire  wrote  thus  of  him : 
"  The  Italians  call  him  divine,  but  it  is  a  hidden  divinity ; 
few  people  understand  his  oracles.  He  has  commentators, 
which  perhaps  is  another  reason  for  his  not  being  understood. 
His  fame  will  go  on  increasing,  because  scarce  anybody 
reads  him."  *  Voltaire  wrote  thus  of  Dante,  in  words  which, 
if  their  source  were  left  unexplained,  might  well  pass  as 
having  been  used  of  Robert  Browning  by  some  dissatisfied 
critic  of  to-day  ;  yet  Voltaire's  was  the  keenest  intellect  of 
his  age,  he  stood  for  what  seemed  the  prevailing  sentiment, 
and  in  spite  of  him  Dante  has  passed  to  a  final  seat  among 


*  Les  Italians  1'appellent  divin,  mais  c'est  une  divinit6  cache"e :  peu  de  gens  entendent 
ses  oracles ;  il  a  des  commentateurs,  c'est  peut-etre  encore  une  raison  de  plus  pour  n'etre 
pas  compris.  Sa  reputation  s'affirmira  tou jours,  parcequ'on  ne  le  lit  guere.  —  VOLTAIRE  : 
Dictionnaire  Philosophiqite.  Art.  Dante, 


1 6  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

the  highest  kings  of  song.  Fortunately  it  is  not  needful 
that  we  should  thus  weigh  our  benefactors  in  a  balance.  We 
know  that  the  public  and  private  life  of  Robert  Browning, 
the  vast  range  of  his  thought  and  observation,  the  world 
of  characters  to  whom  he  has  introduced  us,  the  poetic 
dignity  and  sweetness  of  his  marriage,  —  that  all  these  things 
not  merely  secure  our  affection,  but  guarantee  his  fame. 

To  say  that  his  work  is  unequal  is  to  say  that  he  is 
human.  Every  poet's  work  is  unequal ;  but  in  judging  of 
the  value  of  a  mine  we  do  not  measure  the  dross,  we  test 
the  ore.  He  who  has  made  life  richer  and  ampler,  youth 
more  beautiful,  age  more  venerable  and  hopeful,  has  been 
the  friend  of  mankind.  He  passes  away  from  us,  but  he 
has  peopled  the  realm  of  imagination  with  beings  who  will 
not  depart.  Paracelsus  and  Pippa,  Colombe  and  Luria, 
Herv6  Riel  and  Andrea  del  Sarto  and  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra, — 
as  Macready  said  of  the  personages  in  "The  Merchant 
of  Venice,"  "Who  is  alive,  if  they  are  not?" 


Song  from  Robert  Browning's  "Pippa  Passes."          17 


SONG. 

THE  year 's  at  the  spring, 
And  day 's  at  the  morn  : 
Morning  's  at  seven  ; 
The  hillside  's  dew-pearled  : 
The  lark  's  on  the  wing ; 
The  snail 's  on  the  thorn  ; 
God  's  in  his  heaven  — 
All 's  right  with  the  world ! 

Words  from  Robert  Brownings    "Pippa  Passes."    Music  by 
Clara  K.  Rogers.     Sung  by  W.  J.   Winch. 


PRAYER. 

BY  REV.  FRANCIS   G.  PEABODY,  D.D. 

A  LMIGHTY  GOD,  with  whom  do  live  the  spirits  of  those 
•^*-  who  depart  hence  in  the  Lord,  and  with  whom  the  souls 
of  the  faithful,  after  being  delivered  from  the  burdens  of  the 
flesh,  are  in  joy  and  felicity,  we  give  Thee  hearty  thanks  for 
the  good  examples  of  all  those  thy  servants,  who,  having 
finished  their  course  in  faith,  do  now  rest  from  their  labors  ; 
and  we  beseech  Thee  that  we,  with  all  those  who  are  departed 
in  the  true  faith  of  Thy  holy  name,  may  have  our  perfect  con- 
summation and  bliss  in  Thy  heavenly  and  everlasting  glory, 
through  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord. 

Almighty  God,  we  turn  ourselves  to-day  from  the  busy  life 
of  the  absorbing  outward  world,  desiring  to  find  in  this  place 
of  prayer  the  quiet  contemplation  of  the  inward  world  of 
imagination  and  of  thought.  We  thank  Thee  for  the  gift 
to  this  modern  time  of  the  insight  of  the  poet  and  seer. 
We  thank  Thee  that  on  the  wings  of  song  we  are  lifted  out 
of  the  stress  and  dust  of  life  to  the  calm,  clear  heights  of 
emotion,  exaltation,  and  desire.  We  thank  Thee  that  thus  the 
world  loses  for  a  time  its  hold  on  us,  and  we  look  down  on 
the  perplexing  motives  and  aims  of  life,  and  up  to  the  un- 


Prayer.  1 9 

changing  skies  of  love  and  peace  which  overarch  them  all. 
Grant  to  us  this  revelation  of  Thyself  which  is  given  to  the 
open  mind  of  man.  Speak  to  us  by  Thy  prophets  of  the 
soul,  and  bring  Thy  message  down  from  age  to  age.  Make 
the  ideals  of  our  life  real  to  us.  May  the  young  among  us 
see  their  visions,  and  the  old  among  us  not  outgrow  their 
dreams.  Let  us  be  led  by  those  who  interpret  to  us  the  higher 
life  of  man.  Justify  to  us  in  these  days  the  poet's  work.  Re- 
produce in  us  the  impulses  to  which  he  summons  us.  The 
more  we  discover  in  our  lives  that  the  things  which  are  seen 
are  temporal,  so  much  the  more  may  we  find  our  joy  and  peace 
in  the  unseen  and  the  eternal  treasures  of  thought,  of  vision, 
and  of  beauty.  Grant  to  us,  then,  by  the  message  of  this 
hour,  this  permanent  enrichment  of  our  spiritual  lives.  We 
ask  it  in  the  spirit  of  Him  who  has  taught  us  that  Thou,  the 
All-Great,  art  the  All-Loving  too.  In  that  confession  of  Thy 
greatness  and  of  Thy  love,  make  us  His  disciples,  and  make 
our  common  prayer  to-day  His  prayer  for  us. 

Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven,  hallowed  be  Thy  name. 
Thy  kingdom  come.  Thy  will  be  done  on  earth  as  it  is  in 
heaven.  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread  ;  and  forgive  us 
our  trespasses  as  we  forgive  those  who  trespass  against  us. 
And  lead  us  not  into  temptation,  but  deliver  us  from  evil. 
For  Thine  is  the  kingdom,  and  the  power,  and  the  glory, 
forever  and  ever.  Amen. 


2O  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning, 


HYMN. 

WHAT  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart  to  be  unmoved, 

The  poet's  star-tuned  harp  to  sweep, 
The  patriot's  voice  to  teach  and  rouse, 
The  monarch's  crown  to  light  the  brows? 

He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises  ! 
O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices ! 

O  delved  gold  the  wailers  heap ! 
O  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 

And  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 

Though  on  its  slopes  men  sow  and  reap  : 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 

He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

Words  by  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning.     Music  written  for  this 
occasion  by  B.  J.  Lang.     Sung  by  W.  J.   Winch. 


INTERIOR    OF    KING'S    CHAPEL. 


MEMORIAL    ADDRESS. 

BY  REV.  CHARLES  CARROLL   EVERETT,  D.D. 

TN  the  year  1825  Macaulay  published  the  first  of  those 
•*•  essays  which  were  to  make  his  name  famous,  and  which 
were  to  effect  a  revolution  in  the  art  of  review-writing  for  the 
English-speaking  world.  The  subject  of  this  essay  was  John 
Milton.  In  its  opening  pages  Macaulay  maintained  that  as 
civilization  advances,  poetry  almost  necessarily  declines.  The 
language  of  civilization,  he  tells  us,  is  unfitted  for  the  poet's 
use.  "The  vocabulary  of  an  enlightened  society  is  philo- 
sophical ;  that  of  a  half-civilized  people  is  poetical."  The 
change  which  civilization  produces  in  men's  minds  is  no  less 
unfavorable  to  poetry  than  the  change  which  it  works  in  lan- 
guage. The  mind  of  the  civilized  man  is  analytic ;  poetry 
demands  the  constructive  power  of  the  imagination.  Poetry 
needs  also  a  half-faith  in  the  imagination,  such  as  the  child 
has  in  the  story  of  "  Red  Riding-Hood."  Poetry  produces  an 
illusion  for  the  eye  of  the  mind  such  as  a  magic  lantern  pro- 
duces for  the  eye  of  the  body.  Poetry,  like  the  magic  lan- 
tern, needs  darkness  ;  and  in  these  later  days  science  has 
flooded  the  world  with  light. 


22  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

There  is  much  plausibility  in  this  reasoning  of  the  young 
Macaulay,  and  its  plausibility  has  grown  stronger  in  the  two 
generations  since  he  wrote.  We  now  almost  smile  at  the 
notion  that  sixty  or  seventy  years  ago  the  world  could  have 
been  thought  of  as  penetrated  by  the  light  of  science. 
Since  then  knowledge  has  moved  on  with  rapid  stride,  until 
now  we  may  indeed  feel  that  there  is  nothing  which  her 
power  does  not  claim.  Then  life  was  like  a  free  stream  that 
flows  at  its  own  glad  will ;  it  was  like  a  fountain  leaping  to 
meet  its  source :  now  the  formulae  of  science  have  taken 
life  itself  into  their  bondage. 

Different  indeed  is  the  world  of  to-day  from  that  earlier 
world,  in  which,  according  to  Macaulay,  poetry  had  its  proper 
place.  Then  there  was  everywhere  the  presence  of  sponta- 
neous life  ;  now  there  is  everywhere  the  presence  of  lifeless 
forces.  The  Vedic  hymns  sing  of  Indra,  the  god  who  reveals 
his  power  in  the  lightning.  The  lightning  is  the  spear  that 
he  hurls  at  the  demons  of  the  clouds,  who  are  holding  back 
from  the  thirsty  earth  the  water  that  it  needs.  I  confess  it 
was  with  a  certain  shock  that  in  the  Hindu  philosophy  — 
later  than  the  Vedic  hymns,  though  still  very  ancient — I 
came  upon  the  statement  that  the  lightning  is  the  effect  of 
the  wind  beating  upon  the  clouds.  The  idea  would  seem  to 
be,  that  as  fire  is  produced  by  rubbing-  two  sticks  together,  so 
the  heavenly  fire  is  produced  by  the  friction  of  the  wind  and 


Memorial  Address.  23 

the  cloud.  Yes  ;  science,  such  as  it  was,  had  come  to  an- 
cient India  ;  and  the  strong  and  jovial,  the  kind  and  terrible 
Indra  had  fled  before  it.  We  can  half  sympathize  with  the 
Greeks,  who  turned  their  wrath  upon  Anaxagoras  because 
he  said  that  the  sun  was  no  living  god,  but  a  mass  of  fiery 
stone.  No  wonder  it  seemed  to  them  blasphemy.  They 
rightly  felt  that  this  might  prove  but  the  beginning  of  a 
revolution  more  terrible  than  that  which  placed  Jupiter  on 
the  throne  of  Saturn.  This  might  tear  Jupiter  from  his  seat, 
and  put  no  other  god  in  his  place.  The  thought  of  Anax- 
agoras is  now  what  we  teach  to  our  children  in  the  schools. 
He  would  be  hooted  as  a  madman  who  should  find  in  the 
sun  .any  more  divinity  than  this.  Thus  it  is  that  Schiller 
speaks  of  "Die  entgotterte  Welt"  —  the  world  deflowered  of 
its  divinity. 

Another  element  has  united  with  this  to  take  the  poetry 
out  of  life.  I  mean  that  of  interest  in  merely  material  ad- 
vancement. There  is,  as  the  moralist  grows  never  weary  of 
telling  us,  a  hot  pursuit  of  wealth  or  of  social  advancement. 
Our  young  men  can  hardly  wait  for  the  time  of  preparation 
to  be  accomplished  before  they  plunge  into  the  vortex  of 
active  business  life ;  or  if  they  have  not  this  impatience,  the 
world  is  tempted  to  think  that  the  time  spent  in  the  higher 
culture,  in  the  quiet  contemplation  of  the  fair  humanities, 
should  be  reduced  to  as  small  a  space  as  possible. 


24  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

These  influences  have  had,  to  a  large  extent,  their  natural 
influence.  On  the  whole,  the  age  tends  to  become  prosaic. 
Matthew  Arnold  professed  to  find  our  American  life  uninter- 
esting. We  took  the  criticism  in  ill  part,  but  did  not  help 
the  matter  by  loudly  insisting  that  we  are  interesting.  There 
was  a  truth  in  what  Matthew  Arnold  said.  The  truth  of  his 
accusation  is  in  the  fact  that  we  are  modern.  In  the  Old 
World  the  modern  life  is  enframed  by  the  remains  of  an 
earlier  age;  with  us  it  stands  alone.  But  even  the  regions 
most  hallowed  by  the  poetry  of  an  earlier  life  our  modern 
world  tends  to  reduce  to  its  own  commonplaceness.  A  friend 
recently  in  Rome  reported  that  it  reminded  him  of  nothing  so 
much  as  of  one  of  the  newest  and  rawest  of  Western  cities. 
An  article  in  a  late  number  of  "  The  Nineteenth  Century " 
draws  a  vivid  picture  of  the  change  which  the  Eternal  City 
has  undergone.  We  are  made  to  see  streets  lined  with  lofty 
buildings  presenting  all  the  tastelessness  which  the  modern 
world  can  offer,  and  in  their  youthful  prime  tottering  with  a 
decrepitude  of  which  their  predecessors  showed  no  sign  in 
their  venerable  age.  Even  in  Nuremberg  the  commonplace 
structures  of  the  present  age  are  more  and  more  crowding 
out  the  old,  and  the  quaint  streets  are  being  by  slow  degrees 
shorn  of  their  beauty ;  so  that  we  are  tempted  to  fear  that 
the  time  will  shortly  come  when  one  who  would  see  the  real 
Nuremberg  must  seek  it  in  the  pages  of  his  Longfellow. 


Memorial  Address.  25 

We  can  hardly  help  shrinking  with  a  certain  dread  as  we 
see  the  great  hand  of  this  tasteless  modern  life  stretched  out 
to  crush  in  its  remorseless  grasp  the  airy  and  delicate  beauty 
of  Japan. 

I  do  not  forget  the  real  glories  of  our  generation,  —  the 
improvement  in  all  the  appliances  for  comfort  and  luxury ; 
the  magnificent  triumphs-of  science  ;  the  yet  nobler  triumphs 
of  a  large  philanthropy;  and,  nobler  even  than  these  tri- 
umphs, the  great  sympathy  for  the  suffering  which  seeks,  as 
yet  so  vainly,  for  some  solution  of  the  difficult  problems  of 
human  life.  We  should  be  blind  not  to  see  all  this,  and 
heartless  not  to  rejoice  in  it ;  but  we  should  be  blind  also  if 
we  did  not  see,  and  heartless  also  if  we  did  not  regret,  the 
bare  and  prosaic  aspect  of  so  much  of  the  modern  world.  In 
the  face  of  this  are  we  not  forced  to  grant  that  the  young 
Macaulay  was  right,  and  that  a  high  degree  of  civilization 
must  repress  and  finally  crush  out  the  spirit  of  poetry  ? 

There  are,  however,  two  things  which  this  reasoning  leaves 
out  of  the  account.  One  is  the  heart  of  the  world  itself,  and 
the  other  is  the  heart  of  man.  So  far  as  the  first  of  these  is 
concerned,  it  forgets  that  our  scientific  discoveries  are  but 
superficial.  They  have  to  do  only  with  the  phenomenal 
world,  with  the  world  of  finite  successions  and  external 
relations.  The  deep  heart  and  mystery  of  things  they  do  not 
touch.  Our  science  does  little  more  than  name  the  forces 


26  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

that  are  active  in  the  world.  We  talk  of  gravitation  ;  but 
who  will  tell  us  what  gravitation  is  ?  It  is  as  if  one  were  to 
learn  the  names  of  the  constellations,  and  should  think  that 
thereby  he  had  exhausted  the  mystery  of  the  heavens.  And 
behind  these  forces,  working  in  and  through  them,  is  that 
from  which  they  derive  their  power.  That,  science  can  never 
measure  or  explore.  It  is  in  vain  that  our  modern  philosophy 
sets  up  upon  the  borders  of  this  unexplored  region  of  mystery 
its  sign,  "  No  trespassing  allowed."  The  faith,  the  imagina- 
tion, the  fancy  of  men  will  not  heed  the  warning,  and  will 
make  it  their  hunting-ground  or  their  playground,  as  they 
have  done  from  the  beginning. 

As  the  mystery  of  the  world  will  not  suffer  itself  to  be 
bound  by  such  formulas,  so  the  soul  of  man  is  by  its  very 
nature  free.  Human  passions  and  human  longings,  the  joys, 
the  dreads,  the  aspirations  of  the  heart  remain.  The  more 
the  minds  of  men  are  confined  within  the  limits  of  conven- 
tionalism, and  oppressed  by  the  details  of  science  and  by  ma- 
terial interests,  the  more  will  the  stronger  spirits  rebel  against 
the  imprisonment.  The  very  accumulation  of  scientific 
knowledge  which  we  feared  would  stifle  their  life  contributes 
to  their  life.  It  is  as  if  one  should  seek  to  stifle  flames  by  piling 
brushwood  upon  them.  At  first  the  flame  is  lost ;  then  there 
presses  out  here  and  there  the  smoke  of  discontent,  until  at 
last  the  fire  bursts  forth,  and  in  wild  joy  consumes  that 
beneath  which  it  was  buried. 


Memorial  Address.  27 

In  fact,  at  the  time  Macaulay  wrote  the  essay  of  which  I 
have  spoken,  the  "  Faust "  of  Goethe  had  been  published 
seventeen  years,  Wordsworth  was  already  fifty-five  years 
old,  and — what  Macaulay  could  not  have  dreamed  of — two 
English  boys  were  busied  with  their  work  and  their  play,  one 
thirteen  years  and  the  other  sixteen  years  of  age,  who  were 
to  manifest  the  power  of  a  lofty  poetry  in  a  civilization  more 
complex,  and  in  the  face  of  a  science  more  bold  and  all- 
embracing,  than  anything  which  Macaulay  had  imagined. 
They  were  to  find  their  very  inspiration  in  the  thought  and 
in  the  life  of  this  age,  in  which  the  dry  light  of  science  illu- 
minates the  world.  These  boys  were  Robert  Browning  and 
Alfred  Tennyson.  Indeed,  it  was  in  the  very  year  when 
Macaulay  wrote,  that  the  opening  blossom  of  the  genius  of 
the  boy  Browning  was  touched  by  the  fertilizing  pollen  from 
the  open  flower  of  Shelley's  poetry. 

I  will  not  name  other  singers  in  England  and  America  who 
have  with  the  light  of  poetry  glorified  an  age  which  is  in  so 
many  respects  prosaic,  and  made  it  worthy  to  be  reckoned 
with  the  periods  most  marked  in  English  literature.  It  is  a 
happiness  not  to  be  easily  exaggerated,  that  we  have  enjoyed 
the  genius  of  two  poets  so  strong,  so  earnest,  so  magnificent 
in  their  creations,  and  so  unlike  as  Tennyson  and  Browning. 
The  genius  of  the  one  has  complemented  that  of  the  other. 
It  is  idle  to  seek  to  exalt  one  at  the  expense  of  the  other. 


28  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

Some  of  us,  by  the  natural  bent  of  our  spirits,  may  find  more 
enjoyment  in  the  one,  and  others  in  the  other.  Let  us  be 
thankful  for  the  good  which  may  thus  come  to  us,  but  not 
seek  to  make  our  special  taste  the  measure  of  their  genius. 
Who  shall  say  which  is  more  beautiful,  the  castle-crowned 
hills  through  which  the  Rhine  flows  in  its  lower  course,  or 
the  jagged  and  precipitous  mountains  through  which  its 
upper  waters  have  cut  their  way?  Who  shall  adjudge  the 
prize  of  musical  effect  between  the  artistic  completeness  of 
the  violin  and  the  deep  or  lofty  music  that  the  organ  utters  ? 
One  may  prefer  the  violin,  another  may  like  the  organ  best. 
Let  each  take  gladly  whatever  is  thus  granted  him.  Happy 
is  he  who  can  enjoy  in  full  measure  the  beauty  of  them 
both. 

The  figures  that  I  have  used  I  think  may  well  express  the 
difference  between  Tennyson  and  Browning.  In  the  one  we 
have  the  most  perfect  and  delicate  finish  of  art ;  in  the  other 
we  have  more  of  the  wild  strength  of  Nature.  Tennyson's 
verse  is  so  clear  that  we  sometimes  fail  to  realize  the  depths 
over  which  we  are  borne  so  quietly ;  the  thought  of  Brown- 
ing is  so  stimulating  that  we  sometimes  almost  forget  the 
beauty  of  his  verse.  In  Tennyson  we  have  the  smoothness 
of  vowels  and  liquids  ;  in  Browning  we  have  the  strength  of 
the  harsher  consonants.  The  measure  of  each  is  the  best 
expression  for  the  spirit  of  his  song.  Change  the  "In 


Memorial  Address.  29 

Memoriam  "  and  the  "Idyls  of  the  King"  into  the  speech  of 
Browning,  and  how  would  they  be  transformed  !  Sing  the 
"Paracelsus  "  and  the  "Flight  of  the  Duchess"  in  the  music 
of  Tennyson,  and  how  much  should  we  miss ! 

I  have  thus  united  the  names  of  Browning  and  Tennyson, 
as  we  have  been  wont  to  do.  Slowly  we  must  learn  to  dis- 
entangle the  names  that  have  been  so  long  linked  together  in 
our  thoughts.  The  younger  has  been  called  the  first  to  take 
his  place  in  the  sublime  ranks  of  the  poets  of  the  past.  The 
separation  is,  however,  but  for  a  time.  Posterity  shall  re-link 
their  names.  Their  genius,  like  some  fair  double  star,  shall 
shed  its  light  upon  the  generations  that  are  to  follow,  while  it 
shall  keep  fresh  the  memory  of  our  own. 

Most  of  us  have  known  Robert  Browning  only  as  a  poet ; 
but  through  his  poetry  we  have  felt  something  of  the  power 
and  the  fascination  of  his  personality.  In  paying  our  tribute 
to  his  memory  to-day,  let  us  look  at  him  as  we  have  been 
wont  to  do.  Let  us  consider  him  as  a  poet.  Let  us  look  at 
some  of  the  elements  that  add  beauty  and  strength  to  his 
song,  and  see  afresh  how  these  reveal  something  of  the 
nature  and  spirit  of  the  man.  Doing  this,  we  may  learn  also 
how  what  was  best  and  most  charming  in  him  as  a  man 
united  to  fit  him  for  his  chosen  work. 

We  hardly  need  the  representations  of  the  poet  which  his 
friends  have  given  us,  or  the  pictured  form,  to  realize  the 


3O  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

robust  health  in  which  he  rejoiced.  We  read  it  in  every  page 
that  he  has  written.  I  doubt  if  one  could  find  on  them  a  line 
or  a  thought  that  could  be  called  morbid.  The  cheerful  op- 
timism that  shines  through  his  works  bears  the  mark  of  being 
on  the  one  side  the  product  of  his  thought,  on  the  other  the 
result  of  a  healthy  nature.  This  robustness  shows  itself  in 
his  style.  Critics  have  complained  that  his  verse  is  some- 
times harsh ;  but  strength  as  well  as  sweetness  has  a  charm. 
His  lines  rarely  fail  to  have  a  swing  and  a  music  of  their 
own,  —  a  music,  too,  which  is  for  the  most  part  the  fitting 
garment  of  the  thought  that  reveals  itself  through  them.  It 
is  a  rare  delight  to  see  such  strength  blossom  into  beauty. 
His  English  nature  and  his  life  in  Italy,  with  the  love  he  had 
for  it,  united  to  produce  a  rare  fruitage.  He  had  a  power  of 
intellect  such  as  we  would  look  for  in  a  philosopher,  united 
with  a  power  of  imagination  such  as  few  poets  possess. 

It  has  become  a  commonplace  to  say  that  Browning's 
poetry  is  obscure.  The  "  Sordello  "  indeed  demands  a  study 
which  it  amply  repays.  So  far  as  his  other  writings  are  con- 
cerned, it  is  rare  that  I  find  anything  which  demands  more 
than  a  reasonable  co-working  of  the  reader  with  the  poet. 
This  is  especially  true  of  the  works  of  his  best  period,  ending 
with  "  The  Ring  and  the  Book." 

I  do  not  deny  that  Browning  sometimes  fails  to  reach  the 
complete  mastery  of  form ;  but  I  conceive  that  the  obscurity 


Memorial  Address.  31 

which  so  many  find  results  largely  from  the  strength  and 
impetuosity  of  his  nature,  and  from  the  vividness  of  his 
imagination. 

Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  who  has  given  us  a  delightful  picture  of 
the  poet,  describes  his  private  conversation.  "The  Browning 
of  his  own  study,"  he  tells  us,  "  was  to  the  Browning  of  a 
dinner-party  as  a  tiger  is  to  a  domestic  cat.  .  .  .  His  talk 
assumed  the  volume  and  the  tumult  of  a  cascade."  Swinburne 
says  of  him  that  "  he  never  thinks  but  at  full  speed."  It  is 
not  strange  that  such  impetuosity  should  sometimes  crowd 
too  much  into  a  sentence  for  the  easiest  apprehension.  This 
is  a  small  price  to  pay  for  the  life  which  this  eagerness  of 
utterance  could  not  fail  to  introduce  into  his  work.  I  con- 
ceive, however,  that  the  obscurity,  such  as  it  is,  comes  no  less 
from  the  vividness  of  his  imagination.  The  scene  which  he 
would  describe  stood  with  such  absolute  distinctness  before 
him  that  perhaps  he  did  not  always  realize  quite  sufficiently 
the  difference  between  his  vision  and  that  of  the  reader.  He 
would  thus  bring  out  the  salient  points  of  the  picture  with- 
out always  giving  enough  of  the  commonplace  background 
and  detail  to  make  the  reading  quite  easy  to  all.  It  is  rare, 
however,  that  enough  is  not  given,  if  only  the  reader  will 
consent  to  let  his  imagination  work  with  that  of  the  poet. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  just  this  making  prominent  of 
what  is  most  characteristic,  and  the  omission  of  what  is 


32  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

commonplace,  that  is  one  great  element  of  strength  in  style. 
Thus  that  which  to  many  is  a  source  of  obscurity  is  to  others 
the  source  of  the  keenest  delight.  I  have  compared  the 
genius  of  Browning  to  the  mountain  region  through  which 
the  upper  Rhine  flows.  Many  a  via  mala  does  the  unac- 
customed reader  find  in  his  works ;  but  the  difficult  heights 
and  the  chasms  that  affright  the  hasty  tourist  give  a  joy  to 
the  climber  who  is  at  home  among  them  and  finds  there  a 
beauty  such  as  the  lowlands  could  hardly  offer.  Obscurity 
that  comes  from  slovenliness  cannot  be  too  strongly  blamed  ; 
but  obscurity  that  springs  from  strength  of  thought,  vivid- 
ness of  imagination,  and  force  of  style  is  something  very 
different. 

Many  assume  that  it  is  a  condemnation  of  a  poet  in  ad- 
vance to  admit  that  a  strain  of  attention  must  sometimes  go 
to  the  reading  of  him.  Why  this  should  be,  I  do  not  know. 
A  like  method  of  judgment  does  not  prevail  in  regard  to 
music.  It  is  thought  no  fault  in  a  musical  composer  if  the 
attention  must  be  so  stretched  in  listening  to  an  unfamiliar 
symphony  as  to  be  followed  by  a  certain  weariness. 

It  is  almost  pathetic  to  see  the  pains  which  Browning  took 
to  make  himself  clear.  There  are  the  headings  which  he 
added  to  the  pages  of  the  "  Sordello"  to  tell  what  it  was  all 
about.  They  remind  one  of  the  guide-boards  which  of  late 
have  been  scattered  freely  over  the  higher  Alps,  that  the  un- 


Memorial  Address.  33 

wonted  traveller  might  find  his  way,  —  somewhat  to  the  dis- 
gust of  the  climbers  who  like  to  use  their  heads  as  well  as 
their  bodies  in  the  ascent.  Yet  more  pathetic  is  the  change 
in  the  title  of  that  charming  series  of  poems  in  the  "  Drama- 
tis Personae "  which  was  at  first  entitled  "  James  Lee."  In 
later  editions  the  title  has  been  prosaically  changed  to 
"James  Lee's  Wife,"  —  probably  to  satisfy  the  needs  of 
those  who  could  not  distinguish  between  a  treble  and  a 
bass  voice,  or  else  perhaps  of  those  who  refused  their  sym- 
pathy to  the  unhappy  pair  until  they  had  seen  their  marriage 
certificate. 

The  imagination  of  Browning  was  perceptive  as  well  as 
creative.  What  he  shows  us  is  never  distorted ;  it  is  real. 
It  has,  however,  a  beauty  that  we  had  never  seen  before,  but 
which  we  see  now  ;  for  when  his  imagination  adds  a  touch  of 
life  to  the  scene,  it  does  it  without  marring  its  grand  truth. 
Who  else  could  have  given  us  a  picture  like  this  ? 

"  Oh,  good,  gigantic  smile  o'  the  brown  earth 
This  autumn  morning  !     How  he  sets  his  bones 
To  bask  i'  the  sun,  and  thrusts  out  knees  and  feet 
For  the  ripple  to  run  over  in  its  mirth, 
Listening  the  while,  where  on  the  heap  of  stones 
The  white  breast  of  the  sea-lark  twitters  sweet." 

Or  if  you  wish  one  drawn  with  a  more  delicate  touch,  look  at 
this,  from  the  same  group  of  poems,  — 

3 


34  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

"  On  the  rock,  they  scorch 

Like  a  drop  of  fire 
From  a  brandished  torch, 

Fell  two  red  fans  of  a  butterfly. 
No  turf,  no  rock  ;  in  their  ugly  stead 
See  wonderful  blue  and  red." 

In  his  last  volume  he  speaks  of  the  time  when  he  first 
landed  at  Asolo,  and 

"  Natural  objects  seemed  to  stand 
Palpably  fire  clothed. " 

The  lambent  flame  has  gone;  but  he  finds  compensation 
in  the  fact  that  he  now  sees  Nature  in  its  sharp  outline, — 
everything  as  it  is.  This  was  a  consoling  thought ;  but  for 
myself  I  doubt  if  the  fiery  glory  was  not  the  truer  revelation 
of  that  from  the  heart  of  which  it  sprang. 

Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  to  whose  charming  account  of  Brown- 
ing I  have  already  referred,  describes  a  conversation  with  the 
poet  in  a  garden.  He  states  that  with  all  the  life  of  birds 
and  insects  about  them,  Browning  did  not  make  an  allusion 
to  any  of  these  natucal  facts.  From  this  he  draws  the  infer- 
ence that  "although  on  occasion  he  could  be  so  accurate  an 
observer  of  Nature,  it  was  not  instinctive  with  him  to  ob- 
serve." The  conclusion,  I  think,  is  not  justified.  What  the 
incident  did  illustrate  was  the  intensity  of  the  poet's  nature, 
—  he  would  interest  himself  in  one  thing  at  a  time;  and  yet 


Memorial  Address.  35 

more,  perhaps,  it  'shows  that  however  much  he  loved  Nature, 
he  loved  man  better. 

With  him  hardly  more  than  with  the  Greek  poets  does 
Nature  figure  except  as  the  background  and  accompaniment 
of  human  life.  All  life  interested  him.  The  strength  of  his 
imagination  showed  itself  in  the  revelation  that  it  made  to 
him  of  human  hearts  and  the  power  that  it  gave  him  to  pre- 
sent to  us  in  visible  form,  and  with  the  charm  that  genius 
alone  can  give,  the  living  souls  of  men.  It  is  marvellous 
how  many  and  what  different  types  of  men  and  women  are 
thus  presented.  Here  his  imagination  and  his  love  of  his 
kind  worked  harmoniously  together.  In  all  these  characters 
no  one  is  slurred  or  blurred.  Each  stands  out  in  absolute 
distinctness  and  reality.  Critics  have  objected  that  so  far  as 
the  more  ignorant  and  lowly  characters  which  he  presents  are 
concerned,  it  is  not  they  who  speak,  but  Browning  who 
speaks  through  them.  In  other  words,  they  talk  like  poets. 
It  is  true  that  they  all  are  touched  with  the  genius  of 
Browning,  but  it  is  also  true  that  it  is  their  real  inner 
life  that  speaks.  The  poem  is  none  the  less  a  revelation  of 
them,  even  if  it  might  sometimes  have  been  a  revelation  to 
them.  And  what  a  power  is  this !  What  power  of  genius, 
to  create  this  world  of  living  personalities,  and  to  bid  them 
stand  forth,  though  in  so  many  cases  without  story  or  group- 
ing, in  all  the  charm  of  artistic  completeness !  We  admire 


36  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

the  pathetic  beauty  of  Guide's  Beatrice  Cenci,  solitary  in  her 
grief.  We  wonder  at  the  inspiration  that  could  create  the 
Apollo  of  the  Belvidere,  even  though  we  do  not  see  the 
monster  at  which  his  shaft  is  levelled.  It  is  a  genius  like 
this  by  which  Robert  Browning  placed  before  us  living  men 
and  women,  each  uttering  the  secret  of  his  life.  The 
range  of  his  characters  was  less  only  than  that  of  the 
great  world  in  which  the  genius  of  Shakspeare  loved  to 
disport  itself. 

Browning  treats  these  living  creations  of  his  with  so  much 
delicacy,  —  we  might  say  with  so  much  honor,  —  not  infring- 
ing upon  their  rights,  and  letting  each  state  his  own  case  so 
fairly,  that  some  have  feared  that  an  immoral  influence  might 
come  from  his  work.  Amid  the  sophistries  and  the  inverted 
ideals  of  one  and  another,  how  easily  might  the  impres- 
sible reader  become  bewildered  and  misled !  Indeed,  it  might 
not  be  easy  to  say  why  this  should  not  happen.  It  might 
not  be  easy  to  say  why  it  is  that  there  comes  a  moral  inspira- 
tion from  this  medley  of  voices.  Who  can  say  how  we  know 
that  Shakspeare  loves  Cordelia  rather  than  her  sisters  ?  How 
do  we  know  even  that  suffering  innocence  is  more  dear  to  the 
Creator  of  the  world  than  triumphant  vice?  Perhaps  in 
Browning's  world  the  effect  comes  from  this  very  fairness  of 
treatment  of  which  I  have  spoken.  The  worldly  soul,  for 
instance,  is  suffered  to  come  forth  into  the  light  and  display 


Memorial  Address.  37 

itself  precisely  as  it  is.  In  this  pitiless  exposure  of  itself, 
and  of  the  sophistries  with  which  it  clothes  itself,  is  found 
its  condemnation  ;  while  the  beauty  of  the  loving  and  aspir- 
ing soul  is  its  reward.  Thus  while  Browning  rejoiced  in  the 
intensity  of  life,  even  if  the  life  were  not  of  the  highest,  we 
never  feel  the  lack  of  a  moral  atmosphere.  Perhaps  the  story 
of  "  The  Statue  and  the  Bust "  has  been  most  often  referred 
to  in  this  connection.  In  this  the  actors  are  blamed  because 
their  life  was  wasted  in  vain  longings  for  forbidden  joys. 
The  notion  that  it  is  better  to  live  out  one's  life,  right  or 
wrong,  and  thus  get  some  good  out  of  it,  even  though  this 
good  be  not  the  highest,  has  seemed  to  some  to  be  an  en- 
couragement to  sin.  But  what  shall  we  say  of  the  cry  of 
the  prophet,  "  Choose  ye  this  day  whom  ye  will  serve.  If 
the  Lord  be  God,  serve  him  ;  if  Baal,  serve  him  "  ?  Has  the 
world  ever  found  impiety  in  this  ?  If  men  had  to  decide 
outright  once  for  all,  and  then  hold  to  their  decision,  would 
not  they  oftener  be  aroused  to  a  sense  of  the  true  life? 
Or,  at  worst,  if  one  loses  heaven  by  hankering  after  for- 
bidden fruit,  why  should  he  lose  earth  also  because  he  has 
not  courage  to  pluck  it? 

Not  only  did  Browning  have  a  love  of  human  nature,  which 
showed  itself  in  the  creations  of  which  I  have  spoken,  he 
was  interested  in  life  itself.  He  had  his  philosophy  of 
life.  Perhaps  one  element  of  this  philosophy  was  the 


38  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

sense  of  the  beauty  of  life  in  and  for  itself.  It  had,  how- 
ever, certain  elements  more  akin  to  what  we  ordinarily  call 
philosophy. 

The  word  "  philosophy  "  suggests  the  criticism  of  Brown- 
ing's poems  which  perhaps  is  the  one  most  often  urged. 
Some  have  considered  him  rather  a  philosopher  than  a  poet ; 
and  for  one  who  stands  as  a  poet  there  could  be  no  worse 
condemnation.  Perhaps  the  students  of  Browning  have  been 
somewhat  at  fault  in  this  matter.  They  may  have  sought 
too  diligently  for  the  meaning  of  his  verse.  Perhaps  they 
have  sometimes  found  meanings  of  which  the  poet  had  not 
dreamed.  Even  when  they  have  really  reached  his  thought, 
that  and  the  metrical  form,  separated  in  the  analysis,  may 
have  sometimes  remained  apart ;  and  the  unity,  once  broken, 
has  not  been  restored. 

Browning  is  sometimes  spoken  of  as  one  who  reasons  in 
verse,  as  if  that  were  to  deny  the  claim  that  he  is  a  real  poet. 
There  are,  however,  two  different  kinds  of  reasoning.  One 
is  that  of  the  intellect,  which  moves  by  the  rules  of  logic. 
This,  taken  by  itself,  even  if  it  be  put  into  metrical  form,  is 
no  more  poetry  than  the  rhymes  by  means  of  which  children 
remember  the  days  of  the  month.  The  other  is  the  reason- 
ing of  the  heart,  aided  by  the  imagination.  This  may  furnish 
the  material  of  the  truest  poetry.  As  an  example  of  this, 
consider  the  often-quoted  lines  of  Browning, — 


Memorial  Address.  39 

"For  the  loving  worm  within  its  clod 
Were  diviner  than  a  loveless  God." 

This  is  no  logical  proof  of  the  existence  of  God.  It  is  simply 
the  voice  of  the  heart  rejoicing  in  what  is  divine,  and  sure  that 
what  is  the  best  must  be  the  truest.  Much  of  the  so-called 
reasoning  of  Browning  is  of  this  kind.  It  is  full  of  passion, 
and  is  winged  by  the  imagination.  Sometimes  the  reasoning 
serves  simply  to  reveal  the  nature  of  the  person  into  whose 
mouth  it  is  put.  It  is  not  the  reasoning  that  is  the  chief 
thing,  but  the  character  that  is  made  visible  by  it.  In 
Bishop  Blougram's  defence,  for  instance,  we  have  presented 
what  I  have  called  an  inverted  ideal  of  life.  By  what  power 
of  imagination  is  this  ideal  embodied,  and  how  does  each 
new  step  in  the  reasoning  make  a  new  revelation  of  the 
man  who  utters  it ! 

Let  us  ask  briefly  what  is  the  philosophy  of  life  which  is 
embodied  in  those  poems  of  Browning  that  can  be  said  to  be 
pervaded  by  a  philosophy.  Only  in  this  way  can  we  know 
whether  it  may  furnish  material  to  be  fused  by  the  fire  of 
poetry. 

The  philosophy  of  Browning,  if  it  may  be  so  called,  con- 
sists in  the  sense  of  a  discord  in  life,  and  in  faith  in  an  ideal 
in  which  this  discord  shall  be  solved.  In  the  "Paracelsus"  — 
the  earliest  poem  which  he  afterward  cared  to  acknowledge  — 
the  key  is  struck  with  which  many  of  his  other  poems  are  in 


40  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

accord.  In  the  history  of  the  world,  the  earliest  form  of  art 
is  the  symbolic.  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  the  lives  of 
the  grander  poets  tended  to  repeat  the  forms  through  which 
the  art  of  the  world  has  passed.  The  "Paracelsus"  presents 
this  central  thought  of  Browning  in  a  lofty  symbolism.  It 
perhaps  more  truly  than  any  other  modern  poem  can  be 
called  sublime.  Paracelsus  and  Aprile  are  each  the  half  of  a 
divided  man.  The  one  would  know  only,  the  other  would 
love  only ;  and  thus  each  fails  for  the  lack  of  what  the  other 
has.  A  somewhat  similar  contrast  is  marked  in  most  of  his 
other  tragedies.  Some  would  deny  to  these  the  right  to  be 
called  dramas,  because  there  is  so  little  action.  Certainly 
they  are  not  dramas  for  the  stage ;  buf  to  the  reader  they 
lack  nothing  of  dramatic  power.  There  are  tragedies  which 
are  wrought  out  in  the  spirit,  that  have  an  interest  and  a 
significance  that  no  conflict  of  force  with  force  in  the  outer 
world  can  equal.  In  these  and  many  of  his  other  poems 
there  is  the  contrast  of  the  heart  that  would  trust  its  own 
instincts,  and  an  intellect  that  would  trust  to  indirectness  and 
cunning.  In  this  and  in  other  ways  we  are  made  to  feel  the 
antagonism  of  these  elements  of  our  nature  in  their  separa- 
tion, and  to  realize  the  ideal  beauty  of  a  life  in  which  they 
should  be  united  in  a  glad  harmony. 

Corresponding  with  this  contrast  in  the  inner  life  there  is 
a  discord  in  the  larger  world.     There  is  power,  and  there  is 


Memorial  Address.  41 

love.  The  two  seem  opposed  to  each  other.  This  is  the 
great  discord  of  the  world.  The  head  and  the  heart,  power 
and  love,  —  how  shall  they  be  reconciled  ?  Only  by  a  faith 
that  shall  see  love  manifesting  itself  in  the  power;  only  in  a 
life  ideally  perfect,  in  which  the  head  and  heart  are  in  accord. 
This  ideal  shows  itself  as  it  stands  out  against  the  back- 
ground which  religion  offers.  The  religion  of  Browning  is 
as  simple,  as  natural,  and  as  robust  as  his  physical  life. 
There  is  no  cant,  no  change  of  tone,  when  he  speaks  of 
spiritual  things.  Partly  from  this  natural  voice  in  which  the 
word  is  uttered,  the  name  of  God  has  a  power  on  his  lips 
that  it  has  rarely  had  on  another's.  Immortality  is  the  crown 
of  life.  Thus  he  looks  serenely  on  the  struggles  that  make 
so  large  a  part  of  the  experience  of  the  world.  Not  what  a 
man  is,  but  what  he  aspires  to  be,  makes  up  his  true  being. 

In  these  aspects  of  his  poems  we  see  how  he  is  at  once  the 
child  and  the  master  of  his  age.  When  did  the  intellect  and 
the  heart  find  themselves  so  discordant  as  to-day?  When 
did  the  power  of  the  world  seem  to  so  many  to  leave  no  place 
for  love  ?  In  his  religion  he  showed  that  he  had  learned  the 
lesson  of  his  age,  had  passed  through  its  conflicts,  and  had 
reached  the  peace  which  could  only  be  gained  through  such 
strife.  In  the  epilogue  to  the  "  Dramatis  Personae  "  are  pic- 
tured the  three  great  stages  in  the  religious  life  of  men. 
First,  there  is  the  pomp  of  the  old  worship,  — 


4 2  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

"  When  the  singers  lift  up  their  voice, 

And  the  trumpets  made  endeavor, 
Sounding,  '  In  God  rejoice ! ' 
Saying,  '  In  Him  rejoice 

Whose  mercy  endureth  forever ! ' 
Then  the  temple  filled  with  a  cloud, 

Even  the  house  of  the  Lord ; 
Porch  bent  and  pillar  bowed ; 

For  the  presence  of  the  Lord, 
In  the  glory  of  his  cloud, 

Had  filled  the  house  of  the  Lord." 

Then  follows  the  voice  of  the  scepticism  of  the  present  day, 
singing  of  the  face  that  had  once  looked  down  from  the 
heavens,  but  which  had  vanished  into  the  night.  At  last 
Browning  himself  speaks,  saying,  — 

"  Friends,  I  have  seen  through  your  eyes  :  now  use  mine  !  " 
and  ending,  — 

"  Why,  where  's  the  need  of  temple,  when  the  walls 
O'  the  world  are  that?     What  use  of  swells  and  falls 
From  Levites'  choir,  priests'  cries,  and  trumpet  calls? 
That  one  face,  far  from  vanish,  rather  grows, 
Or  decomposes  but  to  recompose, 
Become  my  universe,  that  feels  and  knows  !  " 

Such  is  all  that  I  can  find  in  the  poems  of  Browning  which 
can  be  called  his  philosophy.     It  is  the  joy  in  life  for  its  own 


Memorial  Address.  43 

sake.  It  is  the  recognition  of  one  of  the  harshest  of  the 
discords  that  jar  upon  the  harmony  of  life.  It  is  the  vision 
of  an  ideal  life,  in  which  this  discord  should  be  solved.  It  is 
the  knowledge  that  the  ideal  after  which  one  strives  repre- 
sents a  life  more  than  the  pitiful  half-attainment.  It  is  the 
perception  of  an  infinite  spiritual  background,  against  which 
his  noblest  characters  loom  sublime,  and  from  which  the 
slightest  things  gain  clearness  and  significance.  Is  not  all 
this  the  very  stuff  out  of  which  poetry  should  be  wrought  ? 
Does  it  need  more  than  the  master's  touch  to  put  on  of  itself 
the  poetic  form  ? 

This  must  not  be  taken  too  seriously.  He  was  not  always, 
not  often,  dealing  with  the  problems  and  the  higher  aspects 
of  life.  The  summit  of  the  mountain  of  his  genius  pierces 
the  sky ;  but  the  green  trees  clothe  its  sides,  and  the  flowers 
laugh  upon  its  lower  slopes  and  upon  the  plains  that  stretch 
about  its  base. 

While  I  have  been  speaking  of  the  poetry  of  Browning,  I 
have  been  trying  to  make  more  real  to  you  and  to  myself  the 
thought  of  that  personality  which  the  poems  manifest, — that 
strong,  eager  nature;  that  joy  in  the  outer  world  and  in  life ; 
that  imagination  which  glorified  the  world ;  that  faith  which 
soared  above  it.  Do  not  these  unite  to  reveal  the  presence 
of  a  noble  manhood  ?  It  is  not  merely  gratitude  for  the 
works  of  his  genius  that  brings  us  together  to-day,  though 


44  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

these  well  might  justify  the  tribute  that  we  offer.  It  is  the 
companionship  that  we  have  found  in  the  master  who  has 
come  to  seem  to  us  as  a  friend  ;  it  is  the  sense  of  the  loss  that 
has  come  to  our  own  hearts;  for  though  we  shall  rejoice  still 
in  the  magnificence  of  the  genius,  we  shall  feel  no  longer 
the  presence  of  that  near  human  personality :  it  is  this 
chiefly  which  has  caused,  and  which  justifies,  this  solemn 
commemoration. 

The  few  hints  that  have  come  to  us  from  those  who  knew 
him  well  confirm  this  revelation  from  his  works.  He  was 
sweet  and  gentle  as  he  was  strong,  generous  as  he  was  quick 
and  impetuous,  beloved  by  his  friends  as  he  was  honored  by 
the  world.  In  meeting  a  new  acquaintance,  one  tells  us,  he 
seemed  more  anxious  to  please  than  to  be  pleased. 

As  his  personality  was  a  splendid  example  of  the  possi- 
bilities of  human  nature,  so  would  his  history  seem  to  be  a 
beautiful  illustration  of  the  possibilities  of  human  life.  The 
qualities  which  have  brought  joy  to  us  in  his  works,  the 
strength,  the  buoyancy,  the  delight  in  Nature  and  in  man,  the 
glow  of  imagination,  the  cheerful  faith,  —  all  these  would 
bring  happiness  to  him  also.  He  was  free  from  the  harassing 
cares  that  beset  so  many.  In  his  career  as  an  artist  there 
were  obstacles  enough  to  stimulate  the  strength  of  his  pur- 
pose and  to  show  the  power  of  his  manhood  ;  there  was 
recognition  enough  to  more  than  satisfy  his  longing  for  sym- 


Memorial  Address.  45 

pathy  and  fame.  He  had  the  joy  of  health  and  of  a  glad 
activity  to  the  very  last.  His  latest  book,  published  on  the 
day  of  his  death,  not  only  manifests  the  spiritual  power  that 
charmed  us  in  his  earlier  works ;  it  has  more  touches  of  his 
earlier  genius  than  are  found  in  most  of  his  later  poems. 

How  can  I  speak  of  that  marriage  which  has  not  its  parallel 
upon  the  earth  ?  When  did  two  such  regal  souls  unite  in 
such  an  intimate  relation  ?  When  did  poet  have  offered  to 
him  from  one  whom  he  loved,  songs  glorified  by  such  genius 
as  shines  through  the  sonnets  which  were  modestly  inscribed 
as  translated  from  the  Portuguese  ? 

In  our  thought  of  Browning  and  his  work  to-day,  by  the 
side  of  the  "  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra/'  in  which  he  sang  as  few  have 
done  the  worth  of  life,  we  love  to  place  the  "  Saul,"  in  which 
he  sang  as  no  one  else  has  done,  and  as  few  have  had  equal 
right  to  do,  the  joy  of  living. 

In  the  solemn  obsequies  in  Westminster  Abbey,  as  amidst 
the  throng  of  the  noblest  of  England's  living  sons  the  body 
of  Browning  was  placed  among  the  noblest  of  her  dead, 
Mrs.  Browning's  sacred  verse  was  sung, — 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 
He  had  once  sung  to  her, — 

"  Here  where  the  heart  rests  let  the  brain  rest  also." 


46  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

It  was  fitting  that  his  death  should  receive  the  benediction  of 
the  love  that  had  blessed  his  life. 

Thus  do  we  strive,  in  such  poor  fashion  as  we  may,  to  utter 
to  this  noble  soul  our  gratitude  and  our  God-speed,  and  in  the 
words  which  he  has  put  into  our  lips,  the  words  which  stand 
on  the  last  page  of  his  latest  book,  cry  after  him,  as  he 
vanishes  into  the  unseen,  "  Strive  and  thrive  !"  cry, — 

"  Speed,  fight  on,  fare  ever 
There  as  here ! " 


Song  from  Robert  Browning's  "Paracelsus."          47 


SONG. 

I  GO  to  prove  my  soul ! 
I  see  my  way  as  birds  their  trackless  way. 
I  shall  arrive  !     What  time,  what  circuit  first, 
I  ask  not :  but,  unless  God  send  his  hail, 
Or  blinding  fireballs,  sleet,  or  stifling  snow, 
In  some  time,  his  good  time,  I  shall  arrive  : 
He  guides  me  and  the  bird.     In  his  good  time ! 

From  Robert  Browning's  "Paracelsus."    Music  by  Ethel 
Harradan.     Sung  by  W.  J.  Winch. 


PERSONAL    REMINISCENCES. 

BY  C.  P.  CRANCH. 

I  AM  very  glad  to  respond  to  your  invitation  to  this  memo- 
rial service  in  honor  of  the  distinguished  poet  whose 
recent  death  is  lamented  by  all  who  have  known  his  works, 
and  especially  by  some  of  us  who  had  known  him  personally 
in  his  younger  or  in  his  later  days.  From  all  we  knew  of  him, 
it  seemed  as  if  his  immense  vitality  and  productive  power 
might  have  continued  untouched  for  many  years  longer; 
and  it  is  not  easy  to  think  of  him  as  one  of  the  forever 
silent  voices  among  us. 

My  first  acquaintance  with  Browning's  works  dates  back 
to  over  forty-five  years  ago,  when  I  was  one  of  a  compara- 
tively small  circle  of  the  readers  and  admirers  of  the  first  of 
his  books  known  in  America.  I  well  remember  with  what 
fresh  delight  and  enthusiasm  we  read  them. 

It  was  therefore  a  rare  experience  when  a  few  years  later 
I  met  him  in  Florence  in  the  winter  of  1849.  I  recall  his 
bright,  alert,  sunny,  cordial  presence  as  he  sat  in  my  studio, 
or  as  I  saw  him  in  his  rooms  at  the  Casa  Guidi — those 


Address  by  C.  P.  Cranch.  49 

rooms  then  lit  up  as  by  a  double  star  —  with  Mrs.  Browning 
at  his  side.  My  wife  and  I  were  introduced  to  them  by  our 
friend  Margaret  Fuller ;  and  I  think  it  was  through  her, 
and  about  the  same  time,  that  our  friend  William  Story  was 
introduced  to  them.  The  natural  feeling  of  remoteness  in 
our  first  admission  to  the  society  of  two  such  distinguished 
poets  was  soon  dissipated  by  their  frank  and  genial  hospi- 
tality. We  saw  them  often,  and  it  is  needless  to  say  that 
the  privilege  of  this  acquaintance  gave  added  charms  to  our 
residence  that  winter  in  Florence. 

I  met  Browning  again  in  London  in  1855  — also  in  Paris  — 
and  in  1859  in  Rome.  But  he  was  then  moving  much  in 
aristocratic  society,  and  we  saw  less  both  of  him  and  his  wife. 

At  the  time  I  first  knew  him  he  was  thirty-seven  years  old. 
He  wore  no  beard  or  moustache,  and  his  hair  was  nearly 
black.  This  was  his  appearance  the  last  time  I  saw  him. 
The  later  photographs  of  him,  with  gray  hair  and  full 
gray  beard,  do  not  help  me  in  the  least  to  a  recollection  of 
his  face. 

His  manners  were  extremely  cordial  and  friendly.  When 
animated  in  conversation,  he  had  a  way  of  getting  up  and 
standing,  or  walking  up  and  down  while  still  continuing  to 
talk  in  a  fluent  vein.  A  subject  that  especially  excited  him 
at  that  time  was  that  of  mediums  and  spiritual  manifestations. 
He  was  an  utter  unbeliever  in  these,  while  Mrs.  Browning 

4  ' 


50  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

was  very  credulous  ;  and  they  had  many  a  friendly  altercation 
on  this  theme. 

Of  most  of  Browning's  works  since  then  I  have  been  from 
time  to  time  a  reader,  —  greatly  drawn  to  his  best  poems 
as  among  the  most  remarkable  of  our  century. 

As  time  went  on,  and  every  few  years  brought  from  his 
pen  something  new,  his  readers  perused  these  audacious 
and  phenomenal  works  with  moods  of  mixed  and  conflict- 
ing criticism.  The  originality,  the  strength,  the  variety,  the 
scholarship,  the  powerful  dramatization  of  the  interior  life, 
the  subtile  thought,  the  blood-warm  vitality,  the  spiritual 
aspiration,  were  all  there.  But  here  too  were  the  capri- 
cious and  eccentric  diction,  —  the  rhymes  that  were  merely 
ingenious  and  odd,  but  running  unpleasantly  and  irrelevantly 
criss-cross,  as  it  were,  to  the  natural  movement  of  the 
thought.  Here  were  promising  hints  at  intimate  thoughts 
and  feelings  shrouded  in  misty  phrases  ;  here  were  poems 
that  seemed  like  games  of  chess,  almost  mathematical  prob- 
lems. And  the  question  rose,  How  much  of  this  is  poetry, 
whether  as  substance  or  form  ?  Then,  as  to  the  thought 
itself,  apart  from  any  poetic  expression,  the  critics  said : 
"  Here  are  huge  masses  of  rock  full  of  pure  gold  ;  but  then, 
think  of  the  trouble  of  extracting  it!  Here  are  skeins 
to  unravel ;  here  are  hard  nuts  to  crack,  —  problems  to 
solve,"  —  till 'finally  came  the  idea  of  associated  labor,  and 


Address  by  C.  P.  Cranch.  51 

societies  must  be  formed  to  discuss  and  lay  open  his  mys- 
teries. The  critics  naturally  said,  "We  looked  for  a  new 
poet,  who  should  continue  the  fresh  strains  of  his  early 
day ;  and  lo !  here  we  have  the  most  abstruse  and  puzzling 
of  Delphic  oracles,  where  wilful  caprice  and  obscurity  are 
found  clouding  the  lustre  of  a  noble  genius,  —  and  what  a 
pity !  He  could  speak  so  to  the  poetic  sense  in  the  general 
heart  if  he  only  chose !  " 

But  on  'an  occasion  like  this,  feelmg  as  we  must  how 
shining  a  light  has  gone  out  from  the  literature  of  our  cen- 
tury, and  how  unexpectedly,  —  for  though  no  longer  young, 
he  gave  no  signs  of  intellectual  decay,  —  the  voice  of  criti- 
cism should  be  still  before  the  solemn  and  tender  associa- 
tions of  his  death.  We  would  remember  him  only  at  his 
best,  and  avoid  the  critical  spirit  in  which  so  many  of  his 
most  earnest  admirers  regret  that  he  was  not  always  equal 
to  the  expectations  he  himself  raised. 

For  one,  I  like  to  remember  Browning  chiefly  in  his 
earlier,  though  here  and  there  very  distinctly  in  his  later 
poems.  But  in  summing  up  all  he  has  written,  what  wealth 
of  lofty  thought  and  imagery,  and  superb  delineation  of 
character  !  Has  not  his  genius  left  a  stamp  of  individual- 
ity that  must  endure  with  our  literature? 

There  is  this  too  to  be  said,  that  we  make  no  fewer 
marked  selections  from  his  works,  relatively  to  their  bulk, 


52  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

than  we  do  in  our  reading  of  any  of  the  great  poets.  How 
much  of  Byron,  of  Shelley,  of  Wordsworth,  lingers  in  our 
memory  compared  to  the  great  mass  of  what  they  pub- 
lished ?  And  especially  is  this  true  when  comparing  their 
longer  with  their  shorter  poems.  Perhaps  no  long  and  elab- 
orate work  by  any  modern  poet  is  ever  equal  to  his  shorter 
flights. 

I  think  there  is  always  an  element  in  the  writings  of 
every  poet  of  genius  that  eludes  the  touch  of  intellectual 
vivisection.  It  is  that  which  is  the  sottl  of  poetry,  —  a 
mystery  often  felt  more  than  comprehended,  or  identified 
by  any  cheap  or  conventional  labels. 

In  Browning  we  feel  the  presence  of  resources  on  which 
he  almost  disdains  to  draw. 

As  a  great  dramatist  and  dramatic  lyrist,  as  a  profound 
spiritual  seer,  and  as  a  master  of  original,  vivid,  and  power- 
ful diction,  he  is  noble  and  inspiring,  and  will  always,  in 
spite  of  his  deficiencies  of  form,  rank  as  one  of  the  great 
poets  of  our  time. 


Sonnet  by  C.  P.  Cramb.  53 


ROBERT  BROWNING. 

THEMES  strong,  verse  blood-warm  with  the  limbs  and  veins 

Of  life  at  full  flush ;  yet  as  when  one  sees 

Some  unknown  Grecian  youth  Praxiteles 
Or  Phidias  raised  from  flesh  on  Attic  plains 
Into  perennial  marble,  the  coarse  stains 

Of  corporal  frailty  cleansed  by  ministries 

Of  art  divine  from  all  impurities, 
Till  of  crude  fact  the  living  soul  remains,  — 
So  with  the  touch  of  genius  wrought  this  seer 
Of  passion  and  of  truth,  till  heart  and  mind 
Share  in  the  vigor  of  the  fleshly  frame. 
Though  palpable  to  sense  his  forms  appear, 
In  the  soul's  life  transfigured  and  refined 
The  higher  art  that  nature  makes,  they  claim. 

C.  P.  CRANCH. 


REMARKS. 

BY    DANA   ESTES, 
Chairman  of  the  Executive  Committee. 

IT  was  my  great  privilege  to  meet  and  become  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Browning  during  my  last  visit  to  London,  about 
eighteen  months  ago.  I  saw  him  in  his  home,  and  the  princi- 
pal impressions  left  on  my  mind  regarding  him  are,  first,  his 
intense  vitality,  which  made  him  appear  threescore  rather 
than  fourscore ;  second,  his  great  kindness  and  cordiality 
to  me  ;  third,  his  pride  in  the  genius  of  his  son,  whose 
paintings  and  sculptures  adorned  his  house  from  one  end 
to  the  other;  and  fourth,  his  warm  regard  for  his  literary 
contemporaries.  He  naturally  spoke  to  me  more  freely  of 
my  countrymen  than  of  others ;  and  the  great  personal 
regard,  as  well  as  literary  appreciation,  which  he  expressed 
for  our  leading  men  of  letters  was,  and  will  remain,  a  source 
of  pride  to  me  as  an  American.  Among  those  for  whom 
he  expressed  more  than  ordinary  affection  were  Professor 
Lowell,  whom  we  all  delight  to  honor,  and  whom  we 
expected  here  to-day  to  pay  his  tribute  of  respect  to  his 
friend  ;  William  W.  Story,  our  poet-sculptor ;  Colonel  Hig- 
ginson,  who  I  am  sure  is  with  us  in  spirit ;  and  Professor 


KING'S   CHAPEL.   CHANCEL   AND   PULPIT,   WITH    MEMORIAL    DECORATIONS. 


Tributes.  55 

Norton,  who  is  prevented  by  an  important  engagement  from 
being  here,  but  who  sends  this  letter  of  regret : 

SHADY  HILL,  Jan.  15,  1890. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, —  I  thank  you  for  your  letter  of  yesterday.  I 
should  be  glaji  if  it  were  possible  for  me  to  take  part  in  the  com- 
memorative service  on  the  28thinst.;  but  on  that  afternoon  I  am 
engaged  to  attend  a  meeting  of  the  College  faculty,  for  which  busi- 
ness of  importance,  in  which  I  am  concerned,  has  been  made  a 
special  assignment. 

There  will  be  far  better  voices  than  mine  to  honor  the  memory  of 
the  dead  poet.  It  is  an  occasion  for  the  expression  of  the  sense 
of  public  loss,  and  of  that  public  gratitude  the  first  expression  of 
which  was  happily  not  delayed  too  long. 

I  am  very  truly  yours,  C.  E.  NORTON. 

DANA  ESTES,  Esq.,  Chairman,  etc. 

I  have  selected  from  scores  of  letters  of  regret  received, 
a  few  others  of  especial  interest. 

DANA  ESTES,  Chairman,  etc.  HARTFORD,  Jan.  20,  1890. 

DEAR  SIR,  —  I  am  sorry  that  engagements  will  probably  prevent  my 
attendance  at  the  Browning  memorial  service. 

What  a  noble  thing  it  is.  though,  that  you  thus  honor  a  poet,  — 
only  a  poet,  —  and  I  should  like  to  think  it  significant  of  a  change  in 
public  ideas. 

Yours  sincerely,  CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER. 


56  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

DANA  ESTES,  Esq.  YoNKERS'  N"  Y"  Jan"  2I>  l89°- 

DEAR  SIR, —  I  regret  very  much  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  be 
present  at  the  Browning  memorial  service  at  King's  Chapel.  I  am 
very  glad,  however,  that  Boston  will  pay  this  deserved  honor  to  the 
great  poet.  I  gratefully  recognize  him  as  one  of  the  great  spiritual 
seers  and  teachers  of  the  nineteenth  century,  through  whose  inspiring 
strains  the  hearts  of  our  generation  have  been  roused  to  more  earnest 
life  and  aspiration,  and  filled  with  brighter  hope  and  serenity.  What 
Wagner  has  been  to  the  music  of  this  century,  that  has  Robert 
Browning  been  to  its  poetic  development. 

Cordially  yours, 

JAMES  T.  BIXBY. 

WEST  NEW  BRIGHTON,  STATEN  ISLAND,  N.  Y.,  Jan.  23,  1890. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  I  thank  you  sincerely  for  the  honor  of  the  invita- 
tion to  the  services  in  memory  of  Mr.  Browning  on  the  28th  of 
January,  and  I  am  very  sorry  that  engagements  not  to  be  avoided 
compel  me  to  decline  it. 

It  is  my  happiness  to  remember  that  I  was  among  the  earliest 
Americans  who  knew  Mr.  Browning  in  Europe,  and  I  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  giving  him  a  copy  of  Margaret  Fuller's  review  of  his  poetry, 
which  she  wrote  for  the  "  New  York  Tribune."  It  was  the  first  im- 
portant tribute  to  his  genius  from  this  country,  which  welcomed  him 
sooner,  I  think,  and  more  warmly,  than  his  native  land.  It  is  evi- 
dent that  the  spell  of  his  power  among  us  has  but  strengthened  and 
widened  with  time,  and  that  Miss  Fuller's  fine  appreciation  was  only 
the  first  note  of  what  has  become  an  American  chorus  of  delight  and 
admiration. 


Tributes.  5  7 

I  wish  that  I  could  hear  the  good  words  that  will  be  spoken  at 
your  meeting;  but  I  must  console  myself  by  hearty  sympathy  with 
the  respect  for  the  man  and  the  reverence  for  the  genius,  which  will 
be  eloquently  expressed. 

Very  faithfully  yours, 

GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS. 


The  tributes  received  are  not  alone  from  men  of  letters, 
but  from  professional  and  business  men  also,  and  among 
the  latter  is  one  from  his  Honor  the  Mayor. 


CITY  OF  BOSTON  EXECUTIVE  DEPARTMENT. 
To  DANA  ESTES,  Esq. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  I  regret  to  say  that  other  engagements  will  pre- 
vent me  from  attending  the  memorial  service  in  honor  of  Robert 
Browning,  on  Tuesday  next.  As  Browning  belongs  to  the  English- 
speaking  world,  it  is  right  that  this  city,  being  the  geographical  cen- 
tre of  the  world's  population  that  speaks  English,  should  honor  one 
of  the  greatest  poets  whose  language  is  our  mother-tongue. 

Respectfully, 

THOMAS  N.  HART,  Mayor. 
Jan.  22,  1890. 

I  have  also  a  letter  expressing  the  regrets  of  the  editors 
of  "  Poet-Lore,"  a  magazine  devoted  wholly  to  the  litera- 
ture of  the  greatest  dramatist  of  recent  times  and  the 
greatest  dramatist  of  all  time,  Browning  and  Shakspeare. 


58  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 

POET-LORE,  223  South  Thirty-eighth  Street, 

PHILADELPHIA,  Jan.  27,  1890. 
To  the  Chairman  of  the  Executive  Committee  of  the  Browning  Society : 

DEAR  SIR,  —  We  regret  that  we  shall  not  be  able  to  accept  the 
kind  invitations  we  have  received  to  the  Browning  Memorial  Service 
of  January  28.  We  will  join  with  you  while  here,  however,  as  will 
the  poet's  lovers  everywhere  the  world  over,  in  honoring  the  man, 
whose  most  spiritual  influence  remains  with  us,  with  our  co-operation, 
to  work  us  good  forever. 

Believe  us  sincerely, 

CHARLOTTE  PORTER. 

HELEN  A.  CLARKE. 

• 

AMESBURY,  Jan.  31,  1890. 

DEAR  MR.  ESTES,  —  I  directed,  I  find,  wrongly  a  note  to  you 
yesterday,  expressive  of  regret  that,  owing  to  illness,  I  was  unable  to 
attend  the  Browning  Memorial  Meeting,  or  to  write  a  letter  fitting  the 

occasion'  Yours  truly, 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 


Poem  by  R.  W.  Gilder.  59 


Mr.   ESTES  then  read  the  following  poem,  composed  for 
the  occasion  by  Mr.  R.  W.  GILDER  :  — 

THE  TWELFTH   OF  DECEMBER,  1889. 

ON  this  day  Browning  died  ? 
Say,  rather  :  On  the  tide 
That  throbs  against  those  glorious  palace  walls ; 
That  rises  —  pauses  —  falls, 

With  melody,  and  myriad-tinted  gleams  ; 

On  that  enchanted  tide, 

Half  real,  and  half  poured  from  lovely  dreams, 
A  Soul  of  Beauty  —  a  white,  rhythmic  flame  — 
Passed  singing  forth  into  the  Eternal  Beauty  whence  it  came. 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


60  Memorial  to  Robert  Browning. 


HYMN. 

Sung  by  the  audience  at  the  Westminster  Abbey  Service. 

O  GOD,  our  help  in  ages  past, 

Our  hope  for  years  to  come, 
Our  shelter  from  the  stormy  blast, 

And  our  eternal  home. 

Before  the  hills  in  order  stood, 

Or  earth  received  her  frame, 
From  everlasting  thou  art  God, 

To  endless  years  the  same. 

Time,  like  an  ever-rolling  stream, 

Bears  all  its  sons  away  ; 
They  fly  forgotten,  as  a  dream 

Dies  at  the  opening  day. 

O  God,  our  help  in  ages  past, 

Our  hope  for  years  to  come, 
Be  thou  our  guard,  while  troubles  last, 

And  our  eternal  home. 


Benediction.  61 


BENEDICTION. 

BY   REV.   PHILLIPS    BROOKS,   D.D. 

TV  /["AY  the  truth  and  love,  the  glory  and  greatness,  of  our 
•*•*•*•  God  be  with  us.  May  He  speak,  as  He  has  ever 
spoken,  with  the  voices  of  His  prophets,  which  are  His  voices. 
May  wisdom  cry,  and  understanding  lift  up  her  voice ;  and 
may  people  listen  and  learn.  May  mercy  and  peace  from  God 
our  Father  and  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  be  with  us,  and  abide 
with  us  always.  AMEN. 


COMMITTEE  OF  ARRANGEMENTS. 


President. 
COL.  THOMAS    WENTWORTH    HIGGINSON. 


DR.   W.  J.  ROLFE.  MRS.  E.  S.  FORMAN. 

J&ecretarn. 
MRS.   J.   C.    RAND. 

^Treasurer. 

MRS.    G.    M.    COBURN. 

IBjrecutfbe  CCommfttee. 

DANA   ESTES,  Chairman. 

MRS.  ALICE   K.  ROBERTSON.  HOWARD   M.   TICKNOR. 

MRS.  S.  G.  DAVIS.  HON.  ROBERT  C.   PITMAN. 


The   music  was  under  the  direction   of  B.  J.  LANG,  and   the  Songs 
were  by  W.  J.  WINCH. 


USHERS. 


HOWARD   M.  TICKNOR. 
DANIEL  C.    ROBINSON. 
PHILIP  SAVAGE. 
A.  S.  PARSONS. 
J.  C.  RAND. 


G.  M.  COBURN. 
FRED   R.  ESTES. 
CHARLES    F.   PAGE. 
FREDERIC    MEAD. 
FRANCIS  H.  LITTLE. 


D.  E.  WHITE. 


23755 


